Blood Curdling Sight Seeing - how it could have ended - v20
by Borys68
Summary: A "Blood Curdling Sight Seeing in the Middle Earth" off-shot. A "what if" exploring the scenario where Olga and Boromir had not fallen at Morannon. Lovingly betaed by annafan, without whose prodding this piece would never have been written.


At Morannon I got myself wounded again – a nice cut to the head which almost cost me an ear, a slash across the stomach and a hole in a calf. My helmet was nicely holed through – no worth other than as a souvenir. I missed all the fireworks caused by the destruction of the Ring as I was out cold in a puddle of blood. With my menses included – naturally ...

I was basically healed when we got back to Minas Tirith in April. I had regained my strength during the festivities at Cormallen. Eowyn and I made peace and formed the "ladies in pants club" – she worked to improve my equestrian skills and to expand my fencing beyond the basic block and thrust technique. After having been subject to mobbing – from Aragorn (mildly) down to washing women (harshly) – not to wear trousers, not to mention doing so in public, I compromised over the issue. I took to wearing a knee length loose dress and baggy pants underneath. If it was good enough for Pakistan then Gondor society must live with it - so fuck off!

While waiting for Aragorn's wedding I was shanghaied into ladylike activities involving needles. So I sat in the solar and sewed patches onto garments and focused on the task, trying to follow the conversation between the local highborn ladies plus Eowyn and some Rohirrim aristocrats in town for the coronation.

The ladies decided to involve me in conversation and asked about my travels. I was not sure I'd manage and was not certain which part to recount. One of the Rohirric biddies asked about how I got to Edoras. I began in my simple Westron, starting with the breaking of the fellowship. I skipped some embarrassing moments of weakness of a certain fellowship member, of course.

My mind wandered to the harsh beauty of the Wold, of the rolling steppe and the blue, oh how very blue sky ...

_A good thing it was sunny, even if damn cold. As we were afraid to keep a fire going all night I shamelessly snuggled back to back with the Prince- Steward. The second night he made a boob-grab – in his sleep, he claimed, but I gave him a good elbow in the face for it nonetheless. Not that there was much there to grab._

_The next morning, the Riders sent by Eomer in accordance with Aragorn's plea ran into us before we got going. This very nicely pointed out how weak and thus inattentive we were. I was so relived to see the Riders that I barely paid heed to their prattle, especially as their Westron seemed to be as bad as mine. They kept on repeating something about the cloak and being happy to see us and something about happy life. Probably telling us that we had been smart to keep warm under a cloak in this sunny yet cold weather ... Of course being warm made life happier!_

_I crawled out from beneath Boromir's cloak and ... _

" ... and we very tired. We sleep very strong. Night very cold, no cloud. No fire, we afraid of orcs. We share blanket and sleep under Lord Boromir cloak too. Then Riders come and say something about happy life ... "

The Eorlingas gasped or just looked at me agape. Some of the Gondorians were murmuring about something or other being "not proper" – a term I had heard often repeated by Sam.

- What ... what did you just say?"  
- "We very tired. We sleep very strong. We not wake up when Riders come ".  
- "But before that, how did you say were you sleeping?"  
- "Under Lord Boromir cloak."

The Mark's representation in the solar looked at me with wide eyes, while I thought I heard something about "reputation" – or rather the lack of one - from the locals. And excited high speed exchanges in Rohirric. I hadn't a clue what the Rohirrim girls were getting worked up about. Was it THAT bad? Would I get chased out of town for impropriety and licentious use of cloaks and blankets?

- What we do bad? Very cold. Me cold, him cold. Together warm.

Eowyn, the senior ranked lady of the Mark present broke the silence:  
- "Lady Olga, by the Laws and Customs of the Mark you and the Lord Steward Boromir are married ... "  
- "WHAT!?"

Little did we know that an almost identical conversation was taking place in the stables two hundred paces away between the blokes. Boromir, who had become very chummy with the Rohirrim during his stay at Dunharow and later during the ride to Minas Tirith, was deepening his bond with the Horse lords. That day's chosen activity was group horse scrubbing. Or brushing. Or whatever the correct term is. By pure chance he was telling them his side of the very same story. His manly roar of "WHAT" could be heard all over the sixth level.

We both took legal counsel on the "marriage by cloak" from the best sources available – the King of the Riddermark and his sister, currently the Heir. By wrapping me in his cloak Boromir apparently declared to the world that he considers me to be the bee's knees and that he would cherish and defend me forevermore. And give me babies, too. Duly confirmed by three witnesses. All in itself kind of cute in itself but _why me_?

- "You _could_ chose not to marry Olga Aleksdottir, as neither of you is from the Riddermark", the Mark's Supreme Court of Appeal made a ruling on the intricacies of Rohirric Law seated upon a turned up bucket, his eyes and voice hardening. – "But that'd make you a cross between a Dunlander turd and orc piss in the eyes of all Eorlingas. Forget about setting foot in the Mark ever again. Unless you were dying nobody would give you nor shelter nor fire nor water. And still then it's a maybe. And it would place me before a terrible dilemma – to break my sister's heart or let her marry the brother of man who had shown his "quality" to be equal to festering troll droppings. The only thing preventing your marriage to her is a previous, existing betrothal or marriage – but you still come across as scumbag. I don't even know what the weregild on such Breach of Promise is – it is that rare."

Olga was drawn aside by Eowyn and the other women from Rohan who explained the seriousness of her situation. And that they thought it to be wonderful. The discussion also meandered a bit.  
– But why do you look so unhappy? After Eomer King the Lord Steward Boromir is the best match a girl could make. All these unwed women from Gondor would rip you apart if they could.  
- Not, it is not possible to retract the betrothal by Cloak. Unthinkable.  
- Yes, the local bitches are giving our Princess the nasty eye.  
- It may hurt a bit the first time. But later it will be wonderful.  
– Olga, you aren't .. weren't spoken for or married in that world of yours? If you were, it would make you look very, very bad ... .  
- If you soak the tripe in brine overnight ...

- ... his beard brushing against my thighs ...  
- I understand, tears of happiness. Over the end of your carefree days as a maiden. I bawled for weeks. Now you'll assume the mantle and tasks of a married woman ...  
- It will be awful, but over time you'll get used to it. But the children are worth it.  
- Now remember, to be fully wed you have to sleep together and be found under his cloak in the morning. There must be three witnesses ...  
- The children hate prunes. I use raisins instead, with ...

- It's terrible. Knock yourself out. You bleed like a slaughtered pig but it hurts less.  
- At the wedding feast don't let him drink ale. Give him mead – he'll be more alert, if you know what I mean ...

- Pig knuckles are a safe bet. Everybody loves pig knuckles in honey ...

- Unless you do want him completely sloshed, that is. I remember Aefled adding brandy to her husband's mead ...  
- Green is boring. I bought yellow for my wedding dress ...  
- ... and in the morning you have to be naked under the cloak, both of you.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()() ()()

Boromir pondered his unexpected betrothal and – by the looks of it - imminent marriage. He sighed. He was confused. He had never considered marriage. Not with the Shadow's victory just around the corner. How could he marry if ever since he was 16 years he had been fighting a defensive battle, year by year making the enemy pay the most for any gained ground. But still that was ground lost to Gondor – miles and miles each year. How could he marry, have a wife and make plans for the future? How could he have children whose future would be death before maturity or slavery under the Enemy? Drinking with his fellow soldiers and dalliances with prostitutes was almost all his social life. He spent as little time at court as possible, one year managing not to make any appearance at all, he recalled the accomplishment with amusement. Although he was supposed to marry he felt that his father shared his gloomy outlook and never seriously hounded him over his unmarried state. All this had changed due the heroism of the Little Ones. Suddenly there was a future to look to.

The lack of a war was disquieting. He had never spent so much time – over a month! in Minas Tirith at one sojourn. He was deluged by invitations to balls and parties, to visit country lodges for repose or hunting. And he was chased by women. Or had them thrown at him by their parents. Pretty, nubile women. He did not know them and he did not know how to know them. And he felt he did not care to know them. They seemed to be from a different world. Ina certain way he even pitied them. He understood very well than men's and women's worlds were somewhat different, but between the girls who were throwing themselves or were being thrown at him and himself there was an abyss. He did not care at all about what they wanted to talk about. After squealing what a hero he was they did not care, they did not wish to know anything about him. Or at least the things _he_ cared about. About what had been his everyday life. His fight to protect people like them. He felt and experienced an ever growing pressure to marry. After it became known that Aragorn was taken, Faramir too – and by outsiders, at that! He was the juiciest bachelor in the two kingdoms.

And now this ridiculous cloak marriage business. He thought about Olga. She was different than all those other girls. And it was not about her definitely being not pretty, not by anybody's yardstick. He had to admit his not very nice first impression of her in Imladris was that she must be some local peasant serving woman. He smiled at the memory. The tiny slip of a thing had asked him to teach her to fight. And baffled him by rarely wearing a dress. And she had kept on baffling him by asking him questions, in her atrocious Westron, about taxes. Or laws. Or what grows where and where is it sold. Besides her natural interest in a world she claimed was not her own, she was interested in many things only a statesman would think about. She had told him she helped parents run a shop. Her education in her world was easily equal to that of a lore master, he suddenly realised. Yet she was so young to the grey-haired know-alls. She withstood the trek without complaint, saved HIM – with her half-trained recruit skills – at Amon Hen. Simply because she considered him a friend. And fully aware of the risk to herself. She knew the future – she could have stayed by the boats, gone with the Ranger, elf and dwarrow. But she chose to save him. He hadn't seen her neither at Hornburg nor at the Pellenor Fields, but he had seen her at Morannon. A small figure among the Vale of Morthond archers. Fighting for Gondor. He respected her. He liked her. Did he love her? No. Could they make a good marriage? He hoped that yes. Maybe not the mutual enthrallment his brother and Eowyn had, but they should get along well. What he was sure of was that he could try and be a good husband to her. He didn't love the women pressed and pressing at him either. So with them he'd be in the same situation as with Olga. No, he'd be worse off – he didn't _know_ those women. Nor did he like or respect them. He'd have to pick one at random and pray for her to be sufferable in the long run, the one year long betrothal be damned. Even if she was a harpy breaking a betrothal was almost unheard off. He smiled – he'd known Olga for about a year – the customary betrothal length. And he liked being around here. He knew that they would have something to talk about together. He could have done worse, wife-wise. Problem solved, he smiled to himself.

Olga was devastated. The stupid cloak was to cost her a friend. She never had many and in this world even less. At Imladris, then during the trek and now in Minas Tirith she had grown to like and respect the Gondorian. True, at times he was as pig headed as they come, but with men it was not a bug, it was a feature. To her he was chivalrous, gentle and considerate. Called her a slip of a thing. She liked to talk with him, he told her about Gondor and explained whatever he could. About the Gondor he so passionately loved. He did not dismiss her interests as unladylike, unlike some of the Elven pricks she'd met. Or most Gondorians. She liked being in his company and felt that he did so too. Anything romantic was of course absolutely out of the question. They were just friends. They also had fought together. He had protected her in Hollin and Dwarrodwelf. They fought side by side at Amon Hen. Limped together across Rohan. She'd trust her with her newborn baby. And now this ... He could have had the pick of Gondorian womanhood. Any of those very pretty girls. Yet he was getting her instead. A runt with a scarred ugly mug, low slung ass and saggy tits. Plus all the other scars she had - fit for an orc, she snorted. How could he not hate her? They were to be married ... meh ... she'd lead a lonely life anyway – he'd always be out, "with the boys" meaning he'd be in some brothel or with a mistress. Or fucking the mistress or maids under their shared roof – even more humiliating. A whole life of thinking which other woman was he ... or to grow indifferent, numb ... Gasp ... they were expected to have children. She hid her face in her hands. He'd definitely be roaring drunk then. She'd had only been with drunk men before. No other type had ever desired her. He'd be no different. Or he'd impregnate her with stone faced determination. She did not know which was worse. She had grown out of thoughts of marriage and romance when she had been 17. She'd be a cat lady before 30, she thought bitterly. Maybe he'd let her travel and sight see. LET HER – she groaned. Being a wife in Gondor was the same sort of dependence on the husband like women in Europe had to put with up to the middle of the XXth century. She sobbed – her life in Middle Earth was ruined. She wanted to go home. For the first time since her early days in Middle Earth she wanted to go home. But nobody knew how to send her back. She sobbed through the night. All hope for happiness, scratch that, for a life of peace and content gone because of some stupid cloak ... the most she could hope for now was a husband mildly disgusted by her person and indulgent to her outlandish tastes.

They met to talk it over. The air clearing session got of to a brisk start with Olga exclaiming:

– "I know you hate me!".

This was news to Boromir but he kept on listening. Afterwards came a conversation which consisted chiefly of Olga using her meagre Westron and crying over frustration that she could not express herself. Over time Boromir got frustrated himself and subconsciously took up Olga's speech patterns and half growled, half pleaded.

– "Olga, I don't hate you. I respect you. And I like you." – Olga looked at him incredulously but warmly.

– "You are different from all those pretty Gondor girls. And they don't understand me." – Olga's mien hardened and her eyes scanned the surroundings for something to bash Boromir with.

– "But you do understand me. I like being with you. We can live happily together. We can make the marriage work."

At Faramir's wedding, to everybody's surprise, Boromir stepped down from the Stewardship and – with Aragorn's permission – passed it on to his brother as a wedding gift. He retained his military functions, though. Olga and Boromir were wed two days later, in a quiet ceremony, with only the Fellowship and Faramir, Eowyn and Eomer present. Aragorn had consented to this quite affair – upon which Olga had insisted with Boromir's full backing - seeing that entertainment had already been provided by the wedding of the younger couple. The bridal bath was a joint affair for both events. As a wedding present the couple was gifted by the King with Anorien as a hereditary Duchy.

Sitting in the bed chamber in a pretty nighty Olga wanted to puke. She was nervous. She drew her fingers though her hair. It had regrown from its wartime length to one needing a comb already. She kept repeating to herself that she cannot go crazy with worries about hurt pride and fear of humiliation. That she cannot allow for such feelings to turn her life into hell, making her – in turn – make domestic co-habitation hell for Boromir.

Boromir was naturally entitled to the same type lavish wedding like Eowyn and Faramir, or they could have held a joint party, but she didn't have the stomach for it. Boromir kept on telling her he did not mind having to marry her but she found it hard to believe. She pressed her head between her hands and groaned. She was going crazy with fears of humiliation before the wedding was over! And he did not even seem to be the flirtatious type. Yet while vetting staff for their residence she had come up with a plan to limit the female component of the household staff to unbecoming examples of the species. And she had almost carried that plan out. She groaned at her demons again ... much good would have that done. The only effect would be making her look like an idiot. Which she'd doubtlessly be if she took that course of action. Pretty or ugly maids, there was a whole city of females - here her demons whispered – _very willing females_ - out there ... she recalled a saying of her motherland – a temple shall not make a bad man repent, and a good man a tavern shall never tempt. She'll have to keep her fears and insecurity under control or she would drive him away for sure and for good.

_What was taking him so long?_ When they had parted to get undressed from their elegant robes Boromir had been quite sober, was he catching up to be able to bed her? Yes, that must be it! He was getting drunk to be able to bear her! She lurched to grab the chamber pot and vomited the little she had eaten and drunk this day. Then she heaved acid. – "It's getting better and better" – she thought with gloomy sarcasm – "a bedchamber and bride smelling of puke". Self loathing and unhappiness made her heave again. And then she started to cry, sitting on the floor and embracing the chamber pot. Just like Winnie the Pooh with a pot of HUNNY. _Nobody wanted her cunny._ She wailed and her tears and vomit mixed and dripped from her chin into the bowl. She heaved again. She just sat and sobbed over the bowl.

Entering the dim lit bed chamber Boromir – delayed by tricky garments and loads of "good advice" from well wishers – could not but notice that the room smelt of vomit, that his wife was not in bed, and that somebody was sobbing behind the bed. Not surprisingly the source of sobbing was his missing wife. He hunched down next to her.

– "What's wrong?"

All he got in return was a shake of the head.

– "Please, Olga, what's wrong?"

The silent sobbing and head shaking continued. He tried to hug her but she shook his hand away. Feeling increasingly frustrated he got up, paced the room a bit, and came back to her with a flagon of ale prepared for their snack "after". His intuitive knowledge of female psychology whispered to him - "_embrace her_" - which he did, subduing her several attempts to wriggle away. He cradled his puke scented wife in his arms and bade her to have a go at the ale. She downed it quite quickly, interrupting the drinking for the odd sob or hiccup. Whether it was the ale, rubbing her back, kissing the top of her head, wiping her face with the sleeve of his nightshirt, embracing her, the Valar's intervention or the boner against her thigh, she finally started to whisper, to tell him "_what's wrong_". After she finished he kissed her on the mouth, murmured words of endearment and took her to bed.

At dawn the newly weds, with the groom grinning like a teenage boy over a prank, burned the stained yet not bloody bed sheet in the fireplace – they later deadpanned the servants that this was a tradition from the bride's homeland. As they had decided to follow Eorling customs Boromir unbarred the door, put out the knot and scurried back to bed and tried to hide as much of his person under the cloak without pushing Olga from underneath. Soon Eomer, Aragorn and Gimli crawled up to pronounce them man and wife.

- I see you, Olga Aleksdottir, wrapped in Boromir Denethorsson's cloak. I wish you much happiness! – they said one after another.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

They had three daughters, born respectively in years 2 - Beralindes, 4 – Devoran, and 5 – Glossel, of the 4th Age. Boromir died in year 4A 46 at the age of 89, of combat wounds while on campaign against the orcs in the Mountains of Ash. Olga died of old age in 4A 43, at 70.

Devoran succeeded them as Duchess, with Konrad Slimfingers, Eomer King's bastard, as her consort.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

4th Age year 51, 12th March.

As seen by of 2nd daughter of Boromir and Olga, Duchess Regnant of Anorien Devoran daughter of Boromir..

She looked around at her riding companions. Her younger sister Glossel and her daughter Glawareth. Her own two daughters – Amathel and Badhor. Her niece Thannel – in full rebellion against her mother's excessive femininity. Her two ladies in waiting. A few shieldwives and shieldmaidens of Anorien – mostly her mother's ex-attendants or their daughters. The Eorlinga contingent was quite strong this year – starting with the Princess Eoforhilda who was like another sister to her. All in all eight - mostly quite aristocratic - ladies of the Riddermark. And even one woman from Ithilien. A full score. She smiled – the highest attendance ever without the Wraithsbane herself.

She loved the ride – three days plus the night from the 14th to 15th in the saddle. No wagons, no servants, using only what they carried in their saddlebags. Exactly like the Riders of the Mark with Father and Aunt Eowyn had ridden 53 years before. They were even following the same route. Mother had somehow negotiated passage through the Stone Wain Valley with the Wild Men. For 20 fattened pigs gifted every November, once a year women riding under the banner of the red circle with cross underneath on white field were granted passage through the Druadan Forest. A sausage free – as her Mother would say – outing was welcome. No husbands or children underfoot – just the sun in the face and the wind in the hair.

This was her tenth time leading the Ride since Mother had passed away and the nineteenth overall. Yet it still seemed somewhat wrong. Mother had initiated the Ride in the third year of the Fourth Age, four years after the Duchy of Anorien had been created. Then she had led it for many years, with interruptions for late pregnancy or post labour recovery or illness. The last few years she barely made it and had to return by carriage.

She had been pissed off, Mother confessed, by the celebrations in year 3 of the 4th Age of Pellenor Day where the Wraithsbane had become a "Rider of Rohan". So next year she shocked the garrison and the Minas Tirith Court by showing up with her ladies in waiting at the Rammas Echor at dawn of the anniversary of the Battle of Pellenor Fields and blowing horns. This got them through the gates and caused an uproar in the garrison believing the Haradhrim to be upon them. Then they rode to the spot where Théoden had fallen. There, beating swords on their shields, they hailed the feats of Eowyn, the Wraithsbane, and all the women fighting that day. Today there was a separate monument to Eowyn, lest anyone dare to forget that it was "no man" who killed the Witch King of Angmar.

She beckoned the horn blower and the signal sounded beneath the snow-capped Min Rimmon. As the gracious hostess she deferred to the Eorlinga Princess, Eoforhilda Eomersdottir, to cry „Ride! To Mundburg! To Minas Tirith!" – she repeated the city name in Westron. The twenty women swung their breeches clad legs over their horses' backs and mounted their steeds. They rode into the rising sun, the dust slowly accumulating on their helmets and chainmail. The 47th Ride of the Valkirias had begun.

AN:

Italics are revised relevant passages of Blood Curdling Sight Seeing, Chapters II and III.

Rohirrim wedding traditions by ZeesMuse – "Love, Rohirrim style", Chapter XII

As a reminder - Westron is NOT English; Olga has been learning it since VIII.3019 TA, this is the summer and autumn of 3020 hence "me Tarzan, you Jane" speech pattern.


End file.
